The Impostor Queen (The Impostor Queen, #1)(58)

I think of Sig, shirtless as he stalked out of the cavern and into the chilly air. “Sig is the opposite of you, isn’t he?”

Oskar grimaces. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Why does he seem to hate you so much?”

He bows his head. “We used to be friends. He joined the camp about five years ago. He was alone, and my family took him in. He’d had a terrible time of it, but he healed up quickly. Raimo helped. It was good to have Sig around. We balance each other out.” He curls his gloved fingers into fists. “But each time we were chased or burned out of our camps by the miners or the constables or the farmers, Sig grew angrier. He wanted to use his magic to fight back, despite the risk of revealing ourselves. And it wasn’t hard for him to bring some of the others around to his way of thinking.”

“But not you.”

His eyes meet mine. “I don’t want to fight. I only want to live.”

“Don’t you have to fight for some things?” I think back to that moment in the bronze cage, when I fought with everything inside me, just for the chance to take another breath.

Oskar takes a step away from me. “When I fight, people die.” His eyes aren’t inscrutable now. They’re brimming with pain. I reach for his hand, but it disappears beneath his cloak and he closes his eyes. “There are bears in the forest. Grizzlies with heads the size of cauldrons. One pelt can buy enough food to feed a family for two months.” His voice is flat as he spins out these words, like he’s plodding through deep, deep snow. “My father was determined to find one. He set out traps, much the same as the one that took your fingers off. And one summer day, I went with him to check them. When we heard the snap of it, we ran. I was thinking I had so much energy, that I could run like this forever. I ran so fast that I passed my father, so fast that I didn’t hear his shouts until it was too late.”

He stares down at the snow. “The trap had snared a cub. It was squalling and screaming. I remember seeing its blood speckling the pine needles. It’s the last thing I saw before the mother bear attacked.” He pulls his cloak back and lifts his tunic for a moment, revealing the three slashing marks across his ribs, wide and pink. “My father hit her before she could kill me.”

He raises his head. “That was the first time my magic came out. It was like”—he lets out a long breath—“an avalanche. And when it stopped, everything around me was quiet.” Like his voice right now. “The bear was frozen solid. But so was my father.”

Oh, stars. I hear Elder Kauko’s voice in my head, telling me how the magic protects the wielder in a dangerous or stressful situation: It usually bursts forth with such strength . . . I imagine a dark-haired, granite-eyed little boy, staggering back in the wake of his own icy power. “What did you do?”

He holds up his hands. “I tried to wake him up. I wanted to drag him away—he was still in the bear’s embrace. But when I yanked on his arm, it”—his face crumples—“shattered,” he whispers.

I cover my mouth. Everything fell apart, and I can’t put it back together, I’d said. I know what that’s like, he’d replied. I grimace as I hold back tears.

“I ran for the town. I was bleeding so badly that I almost didn’t make it. By the time the constables reached the scene, everything had melted. The cub, the bear, and my father were all lying limp on the ground. The constables couldn’t figure out what had happened, and I lied. I was so scared.” He shivers, and I push back the urge to hop off my branch and go to him. I can’t siphon away this kind of cold. “But my mother . . . the day after my father’s funeral, even though I was barely healed enough to travel, she packed up me and Freya, who was only a few months old at the time, and headed for the outlands.”

“Maarika told me your father was killed in a hunting accident.”

He winces. “And I suppose she was right.”

“Does she know you’re a wielder?”

Oskar slowly drags his finger along the rough surface of my branch. “I suspect she’s always known. But she’s never said a word about it, and I’ve never brought it up.” His finger stops a few inches from my hip. “I think we both hate what I am.”

The savage pain in his voice makes my throat tight. “But denying what you are is hurting you.”

His fingers clutch the branch, and his tension vibrates through my body. “Embracing it would hurt everybody else.”

It won’t hurt me. The words are on the tip of my tongue, fighting to break free. But fear of what that admission could bring holds them back. “Do you ever use it? Don’t you need to?”

It seems like magic bleeds from him, whether he wants it to or not, and my suspicion is confirmed as he nods. “There is one good thing about it,” he says, his voice taking on a playful tone, though I don’t miss the current of sadness on which it floats. He looks out at the rolling dunes. “I’ll show you right now if you want to see.”

I nod eagerly, and he motions for me to stay where I am, then creeps toward the edge of the trees. At the base of a dune perhaps twenty feet from our spot are two white hares, hopping along, looking for a few tender shoots to nibble. Oskar squats next to a wide oak and stares at the two little animals. A sudden wind blows across the fluffy snow toward them.